You really have nothing to say, do you?

You sit there, silent, with your hand slipped between your knees like a pious but punished student in the hall outside the principal's office. Then you lumber off the chair and sit Indian style with your long legs folded like the stems of sunglasses. You pat your knee, waiting for the weight of my stare from the kitchen table to wane or skitter off your face like the reflection of a watch's face from a passerby.